Not fully. He has me too. But the Vakutan markers are there: the scales, the golden eyes, the impossible strength, the way heat collects in him when he’s upset. If Bron gets too close to my quarters, too curious, too persistent?—
No.
I go cold all the way through.
Bron notices the change in me immediately. Of course he does.
His voice drops. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is very obviously not nothing.”
I turn toward him just enough to keep my mouth hidden from the nearest drone. “Listen to me carefully.”
He goes still.
“Whatever this stunt is, whatever the producers think they’re doing, our partnership remains strictly professional.”
His brows lift. “Professional.”
“Yes.”
“We’re on a reality competition themed around exes.”
“And yet I still managed to form a sentence. Miracles happen.”
One corner of his mouth moves, almost a smile. “Tilda?—”
“No.” I step closer by half an inch, not affection, just tactical proximity. “I mean it. We cooperate only as required to survivethe competition. We do not discuss us. We do not improvise. We do not play into this absurd narrative any more than necessary.”
His eyes search my face. Too intent. Too familiar. It irritates something deep and old in me.
“Required to survive,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“And what counts as necessary?”
“Winning.”
That seems to land somewhere real.
He looks at me for a long second, then nods once. “All right.”
I narrow my eyes. “That was suspiciously easy.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’m capable of agreeing with you occasionally.”
“I’ve seen no evidence.”
“I’ll work on my messaging.”
The production coordinator announces that first-phase training begins immediately at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow, but pair orientation and initial physical familiarization will start tonight for all contestants still upright enough to participate. Groans rise again. Somewhere behind us, Sonya says, “They really looked at this room full of trauma and thoughtlet’s add cardio.”
Accurate.
Bron glances toward the projected schedule. “Well. Romantic.”
